


keep speaking my love language

by endlessnorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Drabbles, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlets, Fluff, Love, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnorth/pseuds/endlessnorth
Summary: The castle and its inhabitants transform on the night of the Yule Ball; there’s a kind of enthusiasm and anticipation in the boys’ dormitory that Gendry hasn’t felt since the first quidditch match of the year.“You nervous?” Anguy asks as he tugs a pair of frilly stockings over his legs. Gendry wrinkles his nose at the sight of them, mostly dreading the fact that he’ll have to wear something similar as well.He fixes his tie and forces his hair to stay down flat in the mirror with a touch of Sleekeazy’s. “Why would I be?”“You’re going to the Yule Ball with Arya Stark, mate!” Anguy sputters. “She’s the Hogwarts Champion for the first Tournament in centuries, how aren’t you intimidated?"--short tumblr fills for gendry/arya, featuring: a bookshop thief, drunk confessions, angsty reunions, and more.request stuff!
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 63
Kudos: 137





	1. night thief (bookstore au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for @welt-verbessererin: gendrya + bookstore!au + meet messy + “i know this looks bad, but i swear, it’s not.”

"You’re being ridiculous,” Arya tells her coworker flatly. “There is no way someone is sneaking into this bookstore at one in the morning to steal books. I mean, how lame of a criminal do you have to be to do that?” 

“The back door was open when I came in this morning,” Meera says enthusiastically. “Why would the back door be open if someone wasn’t sneaking in? Okay, look," she adds when Arya's still dubious, "how many copies of _Ten Thousand Ships_ did we have yesterday?”

“Twelve," Arya answers.

“And how many do we have today?”

“Eleven.” She motions for Meera to lower her voice, lest they distract the customers engrossed in browsing or reading in one of the over-stuffed chairs. “But it’s a bookstore. We do sell things occasionally.” 

“I specifically remember having twelve copies when we closed,” Meera argues. “One of us should stay after hours to find out what’s going on. This is suspicious!”

“No, you’re bored.” Arya lifts one of the books they’re organizing and jabs it deliberately at Meera’s face, grinning when she jumps back in surprise. “But you know what? Fine. If it makes you feel better, I’ll stay and find out the identity of this criminal-”

“Don’t make fun of me!” 

“-who’s apparently stealing books-”

“Arya!”

“Books meant for children under the age of ten,” she finishes defiantly. 

Meera huffs and stalks over to the other side of the aisle. “You better not forget.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arya mutters. She makes a mental note to call Davos later that night, so she can tell him that one of his employees is becoming absolutely paranoid. 

-

It’s half past midnight, and no one could say that Arya wasn’t keeping her promise to Meera. Even though she’s about to pass out from sleep deprivation, she fixes her eyes on her history textbook and resigns herself to studying - determined to make something useful out of this half-baked stakeout. 

If she didn’t spend so much time here during the day, the bookstore would creep her out right now. All the lights are off, the better for attracting vagrant criminals, and the back door, while locked, isn’t reinforced in any other way. 

_Whatever,_ she thinks. How scary could someone who steals kids’ books be, anyway? If there even was someone sneaking in. 

Still. She probably deserves a raise for this. 

Her chair creaks and Arya has to stifle a frightened scream. 

She _definitely_ deserves a raise. 

Ten minutes later, Arya’s learned the names of all six kings succeeding Jaeherys I, but not the identity of the purported night thief. She closes her book and leans her head sleepily on the front desk, ready to take a nap. She’s just drifting asleep when she hears it. 

The sound of a key scraping through a lock. The sound of the back doorknob turning. 

Every muscle in her body seizes up in fear. _Oh, holy shit. Holy shit, Meera was right._

She turns the lamp off, and as resolutely as she can heads for the main switch, careful not to jostle anything in the dark. Maybe if she surprises the person by turning on the lights...

“Shh,” Arya hears someone say. It’s definitely a guy. A guy with a really deep, threatening-sounding voice, and why the hell didn’t she take Meera up on her offer of bear mace? She poises her finger over the light switch. 

“Are we supposed to be doing this?” another voice asks, just before Arya’s about to flip it. Her eyes narrow with confusion; that’s a little girl. “We could get in trouble.” 

“We won’t get in trouble,” the man reassures her gently, “it’s fine, Barra. Just let me get the lights.” 

Arya hears him moving towards her, and she hits the light switch. 

“Shit!” The guy shouts when he sees her, and Arya fumbles for her keys, holding them between her knuckles with the sharp edges pointed outwards. “What are you _doing_?” 

“I work here! What the hells are _you_ doing?” she squeaks, and Arya does _not_ squeak. But it doesn’t help that he’s even more frightening with the lights on - the guy has at least a foot on her, and probably a hundred pounds. Her eyes flick to the little girl next to him. They look related, with the same blue eyes and dark hair. “Are you robbing my bookstore?”

“I have a reason to be here,” he tries to explain, stepping closer. She jabs the keys in his direction, and he moves back, his eyes widening. “I’m not going to hurt you, miss. Come on,” he says when Arya doesn’t budge. “My little sister’s here.” 

Admittedly, the kid looks like she’s about to cry. And this is weird. So Arya drops the keys, still clenching them tightly in her hand. 

“You have five minutes to explain, or I’m calling the cops on you.” 

He puts a protective hand on his sister’s shoulder. Like _Arya’s_ the crazy one. “...you have somewhere quiet to talk?”

-

Arya gives Barra a random book to read and leads the man into the back room, still feeling skeptical. “Six feet,” she says curtly. “Do not come within six feet of me, or I’m keying you.” 

“Yeah,” he says tiredly. “Got it.” He puts his head in his hands, looking exhausted. “Sorry...what’s your name?”

“I’m Arya,” she says after a moment. 

He nods, his eyes searching hers. “Gendry."

“All right.” She crosses her arms. Taps her foot against the ground. “Gendry, why were you trying to break into my bookstore? And how did you unlock it?” 

“I have a key,” he answers simply. “Davos gave it to me.” 

Her mouth opens a little. “Davos Seaworth? The owner?” 

“Yeah. We’re friends.” Gendry scratches the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “The thing is, Barra likes to read, but I don’t exactly have the cash to buy books. So Davos gave me a key. Told me I could bring her in whenever to read a little...sometimes she takes a book home.” 

“Oh.” Arya frowns. “But why come here at midnight? Why be so suspicious about it?”

“Because midnight’s the only time I’m not busy working,” he explains. “I know this looks bad, but I swear, it’s not. I’m sorry if I scared you, but I’d like for us to keep coming here.” 

He sounds genuine. Arya nods; he grins.

“I do need that book back, though.” 

-

“Find anything?” Meera asks the next day, excitable as always. 

“Oh, nothing,” Arya says idly. She sets the missing copy of _Ten Thousand Ships_ on the desk. It has all of its pages, but it’s missing a slip of paper Gendry put in there last night, the one with his phone number. That’s tucked into the folds of her wallet, hidden securely away. 

“The missing book!” Meera exclaims. “Where was it?” 

Arya bites her lip and goes to reorganize the comprehensive histories. “Just around.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here are the lists of prompts i'm accepting!](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/post/631063118028603392/prompts-list) also, please comment/review if you enjoyed, it would mean the world to me :)
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	2. encore (band au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for @anonymous: band!au + enemies to lovers + “shut up for a second, will you?”

The drummer isn’t bad; he’s quite good, in fact, at least in terms of skill and style. He plays with a shite ton of ego, though, and Gendry’s certain that his personality isn’t suitable for the band as a group - not to mention that the sultry looks he keeps shooting through his curls will be incredibly distracting once he’s onstage. With one sideways look at Anguy, he figures they’re both thinking the same thing. 

“Yeah, no,” Anguy says to Gendry under his breath, before waving the drummer off. “That’s it.” 

The guy twirls his drumsticks in one hand and does one last fill, looking more than a little smug as he stands from the kit. 

“Well, uh…” Anguy begins, “Satin, yeah?”

The drummer, Satin, nods. 

“Right,” Anguy says apologetically. “Look - you’re really good, Satin, you’ve got a lot of flair and skills. I just don’t think you’d fit in with the kind of music we’re trying to play. Sorry, mate.” 

Gendry had been expecting Satin to outright blow up or throw a tantrum, so he’s genuinely surprised when the guy just shrugs, flips his hair out of his eyes and leaves the room with a casual “okay.”

Gendry sighs into his hands when the door is fully closed. “That’s nine of them now,” he informs Anguy tersely, referring to the eight other drummers who they’ve already had to let go. Anguy just rolls his eyes, but honestly, it’s starting to concern Gendry. How hard is it to find one drummer to go along with them? He’s sure they’ve tried out every university-age player in King’s Landing, except maybe for-

“Arya Stark?” Anguy calls out. “We’re ready for you.” 

_Seven hells._

Gendry jerks his head up just as the door swings open. Arya slips her book bag off her shoulder and meets his eyes immediately, her grey ones already flashing with defiance. 

“Hey, Gendry.”

“What are you doing here?” He says curtly, which makes Anguy jump in surprise - because _Anguy_ was unaware of the fact that he and Arya Stark have history between them. “I thought you had a band already.”

“I did. Meera dropped out, though - we can’t play as a two-piece, and I’d like to keep drumming through the semester. So I checked out the student board and happened to see your advert.” She gives Gendry a sarcastic grin. “It’s not a problem that I signed up late, is it?”

“Of course it’s a problem,” Gendry says loudly, at the same time that Anguy tells her, “It’s all right.” 

They stare at each other. “Could you hold on just a minute?” Anguy asks Arya amiably. “I need to speak to my bass player.”

“Oh, sure.” She nods and goes to set herself up at the drum kit, despite Gendry’s repeated insistences that she stays still. 

“Mate,” Anguy says as he leans in, “what the hells is wrong with you? The girl wants to drum for us - no harm in that.” 

Gendry does try to restrain himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me an extra player was auditioning today?” He says through gritted teeth. 

Anguy lifts one shoulder awkwardly, lowering his voice. “I didn’t think it was important - we make schedule changes all the time. And I didn’t know you two knew each other.” He raises an eyebrow. “How do you two know each other?”

”We don’t really,” Gendry says quickly. He doesn’t have time to get into any of that, much less fully explain the animosity between them. “It’s just that she’s difficult. Really difficult. You won’t like playing with her. We can find another drummer.” 

“Where?” 

“I don’t know. But we will.”

“Gendry-” Anguy gives him a look that drips with annoyance. “Look, I’m sick of this. I paid my share of the hundred crowns to rent this place, so she’s auditioning. Okay,” He says louder than necessary, “you ready, Arya?” 

Gendry shakes his head; Arya slips into the seat behind the drum kit. She’s so short, her head barely even reaches the cymbals, but it’s clear that she’s comfortable where she is. “Ready.” 

He sits in silence for the next minute or so, not bothering to look at Anguy because he knows he’ll be ecstatic. Arya’s a fantastic drummer - she always has been. Even as a bony ten-year-old playing in Gendry’s garage, she’d had incredible power and rhythm, like the music just flowed through her. 

That hasn’t changed. If anything, she’s gotten ten times better.

She mouths the final eight count under her breath, eyes narrowing, her whole face very focused. Anguy gives an incredulous laugh with the last crash of her cymbals.

“She’s perfect, mate,” He whispers to Gendry. “Right?” Gendry just nods, frustrated. “Perfect,” Anguy repeats so Arya can hear it. “Really nice job. Gods!”

“Thanks!” Arya stands up from the drum kit, beaming, and wipes the sweat off of her forehead. Her eyes flit dismissively over Gendry and settle on Anguy. “So…am I in?”

–

She is _in,_ in the sense that Anguy wants her in the band very badly. But Gendry gets the guitarist to hold off on commitment for just another few days, saying that he needs to talk to Arya about the prospective rehearsal schedule. And Anguy’s in such high spirits about her drumming that he doesn’t seem to notice Gendry’s very shitty excuse, or particularly care. 

_Just deal with it quickly,_ he says cheerfully, _some other band might get her soon._

Which was sort of the idea. 

Gendry corners her the next day anyways. Arya’s sitting on a wall with one of her friends, a girl with dark eyes and hair the color of sea glass. As soon as she sees him coming she grimaces. “Bye, Wylla,” Gendry hears her say, just before she slips off the wall. 

Without Anguy there, being close to her is more awkward than he’d anticipated. They hadn’t been alone in so long, not since he moved away from the North. 

“What is it?” She says acridly. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” _About the fact that we used to be best friends._ “About the band.” _Until I abandoned you six years ago._

Arya purses her lips. “You’re not going to let me play, are you?”

Gendry blinks, taken aback. “What?” 

“You could’ve just called the flat.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. Whatever. I have class-”

“Wait. Arya,” He grabs her arm, “it’s not like that.” 

“Really?” Arya snaps, except this time, she looks like she might cry. And that’s not a familiar sight for Gendry, nor a welcome one. When she was younger she’d never been able to quite keep her emotions in check. It had gotten even worse when Ned and Cat died.

“You know, Gendry, I didn’t just audition to be an arse. I know you think I did, but I didn’t. I was hoping - I thought you might want to be friends, even though everything’s been so terrible between us. I wanted, at the very least, to try.” He opens his mouth. “But it doesn’t matter, because you’re such a bloody _prick_ who can’t keep his-”

“Shut up for a second, will you?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Just..” Gendry scrubs a hand over his face. “Please, let me talk.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Talk, then.”

He takes a breath. “I’m sorry about the audition,” Gendry starts off with. “I was rude. Should’ve just let you play.” That’s the easy part. “And I should’ve tried to be friends with you when you got to university, from the very beginning. But I didn’t know how to, and you were so angry at me.” 

“Because you left,” Arya says. She doesn’t pull her punches, as usual. “You were my closest friend, and when Mum and Dad died you were all I had. But then you _left,_ went south, for what? For _Robert?_ He was just a stupid drunken sot who didn’t even care about you.”

But he had money. And he was family, and at eighteen Gendry had been stupid enough to leave Arya for those two things. She was at her lowest point when they read Ned’s will and found out that Robert was his father. It had all made sense, then. Why Ned had taken Gendry in after his mother died. Why he’d always promised Gendry that someday, he would have more. 

It felt important. So Gendry had just disappeared one day on a whim, leaving Arya nothing but a text message to say goodbye. Something like, _I need to find my father._ Something like, _I hope we don’t turn up in the same city years from now, because I don’t think I could ever look you in the eye._ Something like, _I’m so sorry. I really am._

“I realize that. But,” Gendry inhales sharply. “I want us to be okay again.” 

“I don’t know if that’s possible.” 

“Arya.” He reaches out, holds her hand. She flinches but doesn’t let go. “Please? Just try.” 

She stares at him, and for a moment they’re children again, scraping their knees on the pavement of Arya’s driveway, shouting at each other over the sound of Jon’s video games, sitting on the hood of one of Tobho’s broken cars. “Yes,” she whispers after a minute that feels like forever, “okay. I’ll try.” 

And she practically flings herself into his arms, and it feels so good to hold her. It’s far better than _just trying._

“Wait a minute,” she murmurs after a moment. “Am I your drummer, then?” 

“Yeah.” He laughs against her hair, having almost forgotten the whole point of this. “You’re in the band.”

“Anguy will be happy.” She pulls away from him, and with the way her grey eyes are sparkling, Gendry thinks that he could kiss her. It isn’t the first time he’s felt that way. 

It certainly won’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here are the lists of prompts i'm accepting!](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/post/631063118028603392/prompts-list) also, please comment/review if you enjoyed, it would mean the world to me :)
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	3. i counted miles (high school au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for @anonymous: “yeah, well, if you weren’t so drunk maybe i would.”

Gendry is drunk on the sofa when Arya finds him.

“Time to go, asshole,” Arya says. Gendry is surprised. He hasn’t seen Arya since he wandered away from her to find out where the smell of beer was coming from. Her cheeks are flushed a pretty, pleasant pink, and Gendry doesn’t realize he’s staring at the soft, lovely edges of Arya’s blush until she snaps her fingers in Gendry’s face.

He blinks. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “I have a curfew, remember?” Arya says. “Say bye to your new friend. We’re leaving.” 

He looks at the girl to his left. She’s got blonde bangs falling into her eyes, lipstick on her teeth, and a glossy, unfocused sheen in her gaze. Her name is Myranda. No, wait. Myrcella. Either way, Gendry pats her affectionately on the thigh, which makes Arya scowl. 

“She has a curfew,“ he explains solemnly. Myranda/Myrcella merely smiles in reply. 

He lurches to his feet. It’s lucky for him that Arya is there, that Arya can push her way through the crowds of people, and Gendry can follow. 

He doesn’t love these kinds of parties, but this one wasn’t too bad.

Gendry’s happy to go if Arya wants to, though.

He’s startled by the cut of cool, crisp air when they escape onto the porch. It’s quiet out here. He hadn’t even realized how loud the inside of the house was. The sky above is a velvety black blanket, littered with pinpricks of bright white light. Gendry cranes his head up, pausing to look at the stars. 

"Hey!” Arya rounds on him and pulls him quickly off the property, her voice once again grounding him to earth. “Hurry up, Gendry! Can’t you be wasted some other fucking time? For gods’ sake…” She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket and scowls at him, the wind whipping her braid over the other shoulder. Her eyes narrow angrily. “My mom is totally going to kill me.”

_Gods, she’s pretty when she’s mad._

“Sorry,” Gendry manages, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. But you’re also kind of drunk, right? So it’s okay.” 

“I had one drink!” She yelps indignantly. “One! Can you even blame me, Gendry? It was foul. That whole party was fucking foul. Why were we even there? Yeah, Meera was invited, but the rest of us were just tagging along to…what? Drink gross beer? Stand awkwardly around the kitchen of some random junior?“

“I guess,” He answers, and then she kicks his shin, very lightly. It doesn’t sting so much as sober him a bit.

Yeah, Gendry needed that. He is getting so off track. 

“No. Shut up. Do not try your sarcastic cutesy shit tonight, Gendry Waters.” She crosses her arms and glares at him, which would be very intimidating if she wasn’t five feet tall and about as frightening as a direwolf pup. “I drove you here-”

“I drove you here!” he sputters. 

“Well, I gave you the directions, jackass. And now I’m seriously regretting that.” She hits him again, this time on the shoulder. She seriously needs to calm down. Or at least stop swearing so much. “Can you even get in the car?” 

“Probably not.” He hears Arya making an exasperated sound, because _pfft,_ using her actual words, _pfft,_ verbal communication. “What, do you want the keys?” 

“Yes! Yes, I want the keys.” 

So he slaps the keys into her hand. She nudges him into the passenger seat of his truck and takes the wheel, swerving away from the curb at a dangerous speed. “What are you so pissed about?” Gendry says, bracing himself on the dashboard. At this rate, they actually would be safer with him driving. 

“Nothing at all. ”

They get to his house, the empty one he can’t share with his mother anymore. Arya pulls up and opens the door for him, waiting as he stumbles out. Then they both stand on the sidewalk, and-

“Kiss me,” he blurts out, his blood suddenly running hot. 

She looks away. This always happens. There’s that pretty blush again, and a hint of understanding. “Oh, Gendry, you’re drunk.” 

“I’m not,” Gendry replies. But he certainly is. Even if it weren’t for the alcohol on his breath, they both know he is. Because they’ve been best friends since both of them were eight - a decade that feels like a lifetime in moments like this - and Gendry has only ever been brave to make a pass at her when he was drunk. 

Well, he has certainly professed his love for her a few different times at a few different parties, though never going so far as this. “Not that you would do it either way,” he mutters almost to himself. 

But it’s all right; Arya simply doesn’t like him that way. She’s made that very clear thus far, and honestly, what should have he expected? She’s a Stark, and Gendry…well, Gendry is a nameless bastard boy whose father hadn’t even cared enough to contact him until he was dead. 

Even then it was Stannis who settled the terms of inheritance, gods-damned Stannis whose latest email full of curt words was half the reason he’d accepted that fourth beer-

“Yeah, well, if you weren’t so drunk maybe I would.”

He freezes mid-sway, staring at her. “What?” 

“I-” Arya’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Gendry, you don’t like me. Not like that, or else you wouldn’t only get like this when I drag you away from parties and pretty girls-”

“Pretty girls?” 

“Yes,” she says softly. “Like Myranda.” And now he understands why she was upset. 

“I don’t like Myranda.” _Or anyone else but you._

She tilts her head, her eyes like dark grey pools. “Are you sure?" 

"Yes." 

“So you really-”

“Yes.” 

Arya hesitates. “All those other times, you weren’t just-”

_“No!”_

She nods, looking resolute. “Okay. Okay, wow.” Deep breath, long breath. Very sensible. “Call me tomorrow, Gendry. Preferably when you’re sober.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek lightly. Then she turns on her heel, leaving Gendry staring after her. 

He touches the warm place on his cheekbone and allows himself to grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here are the lists of prompts i'm accepting!](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/post/631063118028603392/prompts-list) also, please comment/review if you enjoyed, it would mean the world to me :)
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	4. in the woods somewhere (afterlife au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for @anonymous: "maybe in another world." 
> 
> warning: there is major character death in this story, gendry x oc, and a child oc that is not gendry and arya's; however, gendrya is the main ship, and the ocs are mainly used as handy plot devices. if that's still not your thing, then i would steer clear of this chapter, but otherwise, read on!

She’s surprised to find that it doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would; it’s more of a spreading numbness, really. Something copper dribbles from her slack lips, and she can hear her heartbeat throbbing in her rib cage. It’s nothing like the stories: there are no dramatic pauses, no drawn-out goodbyes. It will take time for her body to give out, but she’s dead to the world as soon as the Night King’s spear finds its way to her stomach.

Arya doesn’t have the strength or care to close her eyes, but she does have a last thought, and it isn’t about the man beside her or the love she feels for him, nor is it about her family. She can only think that her old companion has come to claim her - _today, today, today._

Her mind is breaking, fraying at the edges, and she is dimly aware that Gendry is carrying her back into the castle. When the darkness finally comes for her, she lets go because it hurts. It _hurts_. Somewhere, someone is telling her to hold on, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

The only one who sings her to her sleep is her faltering heart, and she feels like a little girl again.

-

Beside her, he doesn’t move, doesn’t cry, and she’s not surprised, because the day he weeps is the day the universe falls apart. In front of him lies a broken girl, and she finds her eyes drawn to the corpse - she has never seen herself from the outside before. He begs her to wake up, and she thinks he must have forgotten that it’s only an empty husk he’s speaking to.

No matter. He will learn soon enough.

Sansa screams when she sees her, tearing at her face the way Catelyn Stark did when her eldest son died, falling to her knees and cradling Arya’s limp form like she is a broken china doll. Jon lets out a ragged sob, Longclaw dropping from his side. Brienne and Ser Jaime stagger closer, and Arya sees a fraction of shock appearing on the Kingslayer's rugged features. And Sandor - Sandor is more furious than Arya has ever seen him, cursing gods that she didn’t even know existed as the sun rises around them.

“She saved us,” Bran says. “Arya saved us.” He sounds shaken, awakened, now that his duty is done.

They don’t burn her like the rest of them. She is a Stark, and a hero and heroes are not destined to be ashes. Instead, her family bears her quietly to the crypts of Winterfell and lays her to rest in the ground beneath the castle, in the grave next to Ned Stark’s crumbling bones.

Jon kisses her forehead before they leave her; Sansa touches the smooth fall of her hair, which has long been combed and brushed through with sweet-smelling oil. Arya lifts a hand to her cheek and pretends she feels the warmth of her brother's lips there. _Valar morghulis._

Gendry lifts an iron shovel, his hands shaking badly.

He thrusts the tip into the ground, wrenches it upwards, and then all she tastes is dirt.

-

Arya lingers, and she watches. She watches the celebration feast, made somber by her absence - _I’m here,_ she wants to scream, as Jon drowns himself in ale and Gendry stares emptily into the air - _I’m here, gods, can’t you see?_

She watches Daenerys name Gendry a true Baratheon, moments after the queen toasts to Arya’s memory. She watches him return to the corridor where they lay together, resting his head on his hands and letting out a jagged, broken sigh.

She watches the Kingslayer ride south for King’s Landing, then her brother, then the Hound.

She listens to the bells tolling. She sees the city fall.

Pillars collapse around her, children scream as they burn, and she pushes through the whorls of fire like they aren’t even there.

She follows Sandor through the broken hallways of the Red Keep, watching as he slashes down Lannister men with an indiscriminate rage. He’s become harder since Arya died, further hellbent on revenge. She knows he means to kill his brother, then Cersei.

It’s all Arya would have wanted from him, once upon a time.

But she doesn’t want Sandor Clegane to burn here, in this miserable, stinking ashpit of a polis. She grabs his arm, and though her fingers pass through his silver pauldron, he pauses anyway.

“Go back, Sandor,” she tells him. “Find my family. Serve them. You don’t have to die. Not today.”

She’s not sure if he even heard her. His lip trembles; his shoulders tense. It looks like he might weep, though that is impossible.

A thousand different emotions play out over his face. 

Then Mycah's murderer turns and fights his way out of King’s Landing for what will prove to be the very last time. And when it is over - when they crown her sister queen - Sandor kneels at Sansa Stark's feet and offers up his longsword. Kneeling stiffly on the stones of the Great Hall, he pledges allegiance to House Stark for as long as he may live.

“But I’m still no bloody knight,” he reminds her as he gets to his feet, and Arya sees her sister smile.

They don’t have a new white cloak to give him, Brienne tells him. The North has never had a Queensguard.

Sandor assures them that it’s not a problem. And it isn’t - he rides south two days later on a garron, and takes the mantle from Ser Gregor’s corpse instead.

-

So it goes.

Arya lives in a dull grey forest now, filled with endless trees, though most of the time, she flits between places like the ghost she is and haunts a thousand different halls. She shuts her eyes and is with Jon beyond the Wall; with a flick of her hand, watching Sansa on her lonely Northern throne; a moment later, listening as Bran dictates orders to his small council in the crisp tone of a king.

Maybe she is her own Jenny of Oldstones, stuck dancing in the ruins of a world that has no more need for her - but Arya knows she cannot leave her family, and she has never been one for songs.

Predictably enough, her mind seems to gravitate the most towards Storm's End.

Gendry grieves. Of course he does. For the first two years he rules the Stormlands, he turns away all offers of betrothal, insisting that he needs to focus on learning to be a lord. Davos goes with him to Storm’s End and they cope well enough together; at the very least, none of the smallfolk have decided to revolt. The first moons of his rule are prosperous enough that he has time to visit the North - to visit Arya’s grave, specifically, a sight that is both sweet and strange.

“You haven’t wed yet, have you?” Sansa says. They’re both in the crypts this time, standing in front of Arya’s statue, the one with her and Needle and the catspaw dagger. “Davos says you haven’t even considered it.”

“I haven’t,” Gendry says. “I won’t.”

He does keep his word, and turns away every lady who wishes to wed him, every Arryn and Swann and Errol that passes through his halls, until eventually, Davos sits Gendry down and tells him that enough is enough. They bicker long into the night, with Arya watching from the doorway. Davos gives him every option: The Martell girls, the Morrigen daughter, even Sansa Stark, the latter of which he refuses out of hand.

“I don’t want to marry,” he tells Davos.

“It’s not about what you want,” the knight says, exasperated. “It’s about what’s good for the realm. And you must _always_ serve the realm, my lord, before any of your own...priorities.” Gendry gives him a dark look. “I’m sorry, lad. This is the way of the world.”

Eventually Gendry does choose, albeit reluctantly. He decides on Aemma Staedmon of Broad Arch, the daughter of a lesser lord from the Stormlands, once-married and still in love with a man who had died weeks prior. Most other lords are unwilling to touch a widow, but since Aemma is the only one Gendry isn’t entirely hostile towards, Davos agrees to send the raven asking for her to consider a betrothal.

She arrives just a week later, graceful, with rosy lips and fair hair and green eyes that are softer than a Lannister’s. Any other man would fall at her feet in an instant, but Gendry is not any other man, and Arya can tell in an instant that Aemma is not a typical lady. Her eyes are red and swollen, and there’s a grief that stains her beauty.

Arya tries to give them privacy, but she can’t resist. She follows them into the gardens. By the time they’re out of earshot of the footmen, Lady Aemma lets out a slow breath. “I can’t do this, Lord Baratheon. I’m so sorry, I can’t.”

Gendry looks slightly alarmed. “Did I do something wrong, my lady?”

_M’lady,_ Arya thinks, _he used to say m’lady._ She wonders exactly when he lost his Flea Bottom accent - wonders whether it slowly trickled out of him as he grew more refined or if a maester tore it out of him with hours of lettering and practice. She really hadn’t noticed until now. _M’lady, my lady. Waters, Baratheon._

“No, you’ve been perfectly polite,” Aemma says. “But I can’t marry you. I’m honored, of course, my family is honored - but my husband only died last moon. I loved him so deeply, my lord,” she plucks a rose and brings it to her face, inhaling. “And truly, I don’t think I could ever grow to want you just the same.”

“There’s one thing we have in common.” 

Aemma looks at him solemnly, less than surprised. "The pain never gets any easier, does it?”

Arya watches Gendry grimace at the ground. “No, it doesn’t.”

“See? You understand. Perhaps we’d make a perfect match after all. Don’t worry,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks deeper into the garden. “If we do end up marrying, I’ll be a dutiful wife, but I’ll never try to best the memory of Arya Stark.”

“You know about Arya?” Gendry follows her, shocked. “How? And what do you mean, _best_ her?”

“Rumors spread more quickly than you think,” Aemma laughs, “and please, my lord, I’m not a fool. She killed the Night King, didn’t she? Saved you, me, the Six Kingdoms and the North. Now I ask you,” she turns around. “How could any other woman, dead or alive, even hope to compete with that?”

-

His first child is born on a beautiful spring morning, and this is a good sign. _Babes born in winter,_ the nursemaid warns Gendry, _are doomed to have cold lives._ But Gendry barely seems to hear her, his eyes affixed adoringly on the newborn girl.

It shouldn’t matter to Arya. _He_ shouldn’t matter. She had bedded Gendry once and kissed him senseless, that was all. No simple tryst ought to make her feel such sick heartache, and yet, when the maester places his black-haired daughter in his arms, Arya crosses the room to stand beside him. Her throat closes with regret.

She had never wanted a daughter of her own. Not before. Arya was little more than a child herself when she died ( _though they never mention that in the songs they sing about her, no, in the songs she is a woman grown and warrior-like, not a girl afraid to leave her family),_ and frankly, she’d always been unsure of her ability to bear children at all.

But something stirs in Arya at the sight of the babe, who has her father’s eyes and her mother’s nose and the thick black hair of a Baratheon.

The girl is beautiful. And she isn’t hers.

She’s Aemma’s. _Lady_ Aemma, with the beautiful green eyes, _Lady_ Aemma, with the perfect songs and stitches, _Lady_ Aemma, who doesn’t love Gendry, who is not loved by Gendry, but they share something precious now, and that is more than anything.

A child brought Arya’s father and mother together. Who is to say it won’t do the same for the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End?

But for now, Gendry’s wife is dozing, and the child is _watching_ Arya, truly, her eyes are looking at her, though no babe she’s known has been able to see only minutes after birth.

Gendry turns. “What is it?” he asks his daughter, lifting his gaze to where Arya stands. His voice is gentle and accommodating. She can already tell he’ll make a wonderful, wonderful father. “What is it, sweetling?”

Arya walks closer, unable to breathe. His eyes narrow, and it aches, the way he backs away from her. “Is someone there?” Gendry asks, and then, as if realizing how ridiculous that sounds, shakes his head.

_No,_ she thinks, _no one’s there._

Arya grants herself a second more of watching, and then she permits the gloam to wash over her, allows herself dissolve to into the shadows as her mouth fills with frost and cobwebs. It reminds her of the way the Night King’s hand felt wrapped around her throat: his nails digging in, his fist closing, his eyes electric, burning into hers. 

She remembers. She _remembers._ His touch had been so very cold.

-

From then on, Arya waits in the endless mists, and refuses to step foot anywhere she doesn’t belong. She isn’t sure if this is heaven or hell; Septa Mordane had always muddled the specifics of the afterlife. But sooner or later, someone she loves will wander through here; Arya knows this in her heart.

It’s been decades, maybe more, when something finally happens. She's practicing with Needle when he gets there, dancing beneath the trees that block out and puncture the colorless sky. Then she turns, and Gendry is simply _there_ \- unpretentious as ever, unaged as the day when she last saw him.

Briefly, Arya wonders what he died from - sickness or old age, a skirmish with Essosi raiders, maybe a fallen beam that struck him too hard on the head.

That doesn't matter, though. Perhaps he doesn't even remember; some of her memories are fading, too. Time doesn’t flow like a river here, it twists and turns, and there's no telling how long he's been wandering through these woods.

“Gendry?” she says, afraid that he won’t recognize her.

But his eyes light up with boyish excitement. He steps towards her and bows his head, always courteous.

“My lady,” he replies, and oh, how good it is to hear his voice again.

-

“Is this it, then?” Gendry says, glancing around. “The afterlife?”

“I don’t know,” Arya admits. “It’s a bit dull if it is, isn’t it? I was hoping I would see my parents here, but I’ve been alone for the longest time.”

“That must’ve been difficult.”

She looks at him, her lips twitching. Clearly her memory is still better than his, or perhaps this is just his usual bullheadedness. “I’ve had worse.”

They sit on the ground with their shoulders brushing, and Gendry tells her a hundred things Arya already knows. "Jon left for Castle Black - Sansa married the Dornish prince - she has a daughter now, a girl who looks just like you. They call her Catelyn...Cat for short. She’ll be married on the moon’s turn to one of Robin Arryn’s sons.”

“Married?” Arya frowns. “Sansa was still pregnant when I last saw her. How can her daughter already be betrothed?”

“You’ve been gone a long while,” Gendry chuckles. “Maybe time moves slower here.” Then his eyes darken. “What do you mean, when you last you saw her? You were...” he swallows. “You died before Sansa gave birth. Before the war ended, even.”

“Not exactly.” She shakes her head. “It’s hard to explain, but I could see things. I could see _you_ , Gendry, and my brothers and sisters too.”

He looks at her askance. “That’s impossible.”

_And this isn’t?_ She stares at her fingers, laced together stubbornly on her lap. “It should have been. But I know that Jon killed Daenerys. I know that my little brother is king, and that Tyrion was his Hand before he died. I know that the North remains an independent kingdom now...”

His lips move with hers. “As it was for thousands of years.” His eyes shut painfully, like he too is recalling that day in the dragonpit. Gendry had no way of knowing that she had been there with him, that she had been with all of them in the city. “You were there? The whole time?”

“Not the whole time.” She looks away, ashamed. “I left when you had your firstborn. I didn’t want to, not really, but it felt wrong to stay after that. You had a kingdom to rule, a daughter to protect. I was only...”

_Bones in a broken crypt. A forgotten memory._ “No one needed me any more,” she says finally. “No one had for a long time.”

“Arya-”

“I was glad for you,” she interrupts, “really, I was. I never thought any of my family would live out the war. And I _was_ dead, after all, so I can’t begrudge you any happiness.” Arya smiles wryly. “I’ve always wondered. What did you name the child?”

A queer expression comes over his face. “Nymeria,” he says, almost reluctantly, and Arya has to laugh.

She had only told Gendry about her direwolf once - _once!_ \- but she remembers he was very confused when she’d tried to explain everything about the Dornish Queen and Valyria and the Rhoynar. He didn’t quite understand the history. _Pretty name, though. I like it._ Arya bites her lip. “What is she like, Nymeria?”

It’s almost immediate, the love in his eyes. “Strong,” he breathes. “Beautiful, of course, and so much bloody smarter than me...but before all that. Strong. She must be ruling the Stormlands now.”

She looks at him archly. “What, you let a girl be the heir?”

“Aemma didn’t want any more children, and Nym’s as competent as any man.”

“You must miss her.” Arya tilts her head knowingly. “Aemma, I mean.”

“...in some ways.” He tangles his fingers with hers, and Arya pulls away. “But I’d much rather have been with you.”

“Maybe,” she concedes. “But that wasn’t the way it turned out.”

"It should have," Gendry insists. “If everything hadn’t gone so fucking wrong - I could have loved you forever, Arry.”

And he really could have: had she been quicker, had he had been he less stubborn, had they never lost each other in the Riverlands, maybe she would have been his wife, and Gendry, the father of her children. But Lady Aemma was the one he spent his last days with, and Nymeria had probably never known it any other way.

It is a good thing that Arya is the unsympathetic one. The practical one. 

"I know.” She turns his face towards hers. Arya isn't so much as touching his neck but cupping it, palm gentle on his artery and thumb pointed towards his clavicle, the tips of her fingers touching his cheek and behind his ear, and her head is so quiet, blessedly silent and slow, slow as his own movements as he leans into her touch.

Arya tilts her head up, kisses him so slow and so long she forgets to breathe. She laces her fingers through each other at the nape of his neck and holds on until she can’t. She’s still wishing. She thinks she’ll always be wishing.

"Maybe in another world." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here are the lists of prompts i'm accepting!](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/post/631063118028603392/prompts-list) also, please comment/review if you enjoyed, it would mean the world to me :)
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	5. accio love (hogwarts au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for @what-the-waterbear & @the-end-is-kigh & @anonymous: hogwarts!au + fake dating + “wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.”

“So we walk in, and I kiss you.”

“No, no, no,” Arya says impatiently as she reaches over to swipe one of his Chocolate Cauldrons. “We walk in, and _I_ kiss _you_.” Her cheeks are still flushed from quidditch practice, her broomstick thrown carelessly on the floor of the boys’ dormitory, and Gendry has to roll his eyes because this is so utterly ridiculous.

“Why does the order matter?”

“Are you the first English witch in generations to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?” she glares at him. “The order matters because I _say_ it matters. And I kiss you, end of story.”

“I’m starting to think this a bad idea,” he grumbles. “Maybe there just shouldn’t be any of that at all.” Gendry’s nervous enough for the Yule Ball as it is; he doesn’t need any extra pressure on him.

“Wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me, that’s clearly the most important part.” He scoffs at Arya; she leans her chin on her hand. " _What_?”

“You’re not being serious!”

“I’m trying to be.”

“Are you really?”

It’s her turn to be scornful. “Gendry,” Arya complains, her tone a bit indignant. He looks at her archly; she sighs, folds her hands, and sits primly on his ratty comforter - flashing him a smile that he can’t help but mirror. “Come on. Just go over it one more time.”

And, well, he can’t say no to that. 

“So we’re there in the Great Hall,” he starts off, “and you’re kissing me…”

–

The castle and its inhabitants transform on the night of the Yule Ball; there’s a kind of enthusiasm and anticipation in the boys’ dormitory that Gendry hasn’t felt since the first quidditch match of the year. The room is a flurry of robes, fussy collars, and envious first-years - Gendry hears a low moan from the other side of the room as Podrick Payne, in an attempt to magically fix his hair, ends up charming away most of his left eyebrow.

“You nervous?” Anguy asks as he tugs a pair of frilly stockings over his legs. Gendry wrinkles his nose at the sight of them, mostly dreading the fact that he’ll have to wear something similar as well.

He fixes his tie and forces his hair to stay down flat in the mirror with a touch of Sleekeazy’s. “Why would I be?”

“You’re going to the Yule Ball with Arya Stark, mate!” Anguy sputters. “She’s the Hogwarts Champion for the first Tournament in centuries, how aren’t you intimidated? And she won the First Task,” he adds, like that’s something Gendry could ever forget.

Although remembering is one thing; accepting, another trial entirely. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so frightened as he was the day of the First Task - watching Arya fly around her broomstick, dodging wayward claws and tongues of fire before swooping in to steal the dragon’s egg is something he hopes to never relive again. She’d nearly had to beat him off her after that, he’d been hugging her so hard. And he’d only stopped because her hair smelled like dragon spit and ashes.

“I was already dating her,” he says eventually.

Anguy frowns at him. “Yes, I realize, and I wanted to ask you - when exactly did that happen?”

Gendry grimaces. _Three days after her name came out of the Goblet,_ he thinks, _or about seventy-two hours after Ned Dayne abruptly decided he was in love with my best friend - at which point Arya decided she’d rather have me for a fake boyfriend than that prat for a real one._

He doesn’t have time to unpack all that though, and luckily, Samwell pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Well, I’m nervous!”

“Of course you are,” Grenn says. “Gilly wouldn’t even give you the time of day before this, and now she wants to hold your hand? I’d be bloody stunned too.”

Sam blushes. “That’s not true. She liked me plenty already.”

“And how’d you figure that out? By cornering her in the middle of Potions class? I saw the look on her face when you asked her out, by the way - like she spotted a shriveled newt.”

Gendry relaxes, realizing the conversation is shifting elsewhere. Someone puts the Weird Sisters on the radio; he finishes dressing with Sam and Grenn’s incessant bickering in the background and then walks, a bit self-consciously, down to the Gryffindor common room. Gendry doesn’t see Arya around, but that hardly surprises him. It’s still early in the evening. He’s sure she’ll find him at some point, maybe in the Great Hall.

“Oh, hello!” Gendry hears a voice say as he pushes the portrait of the Fat Lady open. He looks down and sees Sansa there, beaming expectantly up at him. She’s got a pretty periwinkle dress on, her hair all done up in fancy braids.

“Hello,” he replies, a bit startled. “Er, are you here for Podrick? He’s still getting ready, I think.”

“No,” she peeks around him, “I’m looking for Arya. I’m supposed to help her with her hair.”

“With her - you’re going to make her look like that?” Gendry exclaims. Sansa’s eyes widen, and she reaches up self-consciously to touch the complex hairstyle, a flush making its way across her cheeks. “Not - not that there’s anything wrong with that, you look very nice, it’s just-”

Sansa rolls her eyes at him in that way of hers, seeming especially disdainful tonight. “Gendry,” she interrupts him with a sickly sweet smile. “I’m going to go help my sister now, all right?”

“Right,” he says awkwardly, and holds the portrait open.

The Fat Lady titters lightly when Sansa’s gone. “It’s lucky she _isn’t_ her sister.”

Gendry jumps in surprise. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says accusingly.

“Nothing at all.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Enjoy the Ball, dear!” the Fat Lady calls when Gendry starts towards the stairway in irritation. “Oh, and remember, there’s a new password after tonight - _wattlebird_!”

–

Ned Dayne’s dress robes are new, expensive, and dyed a deep lilac to match his eyes. Gendry glances at him, then down at the secondhand robes Anguy lent him. They’re not in bad shape, but they’re a bit old and moth-eaten and don’t fit him quite right around the shoulders.

As if hearing his thoughts, Ned sidles up to Gendry and leaves his date, Myrcella, chatting on the other side of the cloister with her friends.

“Waters,” he says, his voice surprisingly cordial.

“Dayne.”

“Arya isn’t here yet?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I hope she didn’t stand you up.”

Gendry grits his teeth, annoyed even though Ned’s tone doesn’t betray much malice. “She’s just getting ready,” he assures the Hufflepuff. “She’ll be here soon if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” Ned says, chuffing himself up a bit. “Actually,” he looks past Gendry’s shoulder. “There she is.”

Gendry’s facing the other way, so he hears Arya before she sees her, her voice raised in tinkling laughing as she descends down the staircase. Still, at the expression on Ned’s face he has to turn - so does everyone else in the cloister, as if pulled by a magic thread.

His first thought is that maybe Sansa does have an idea of how to do things after all. Because Arya looks lovely. Not lovely in the way Gendry usually thinks of her, flushed and smiling at him on the quidditch pitch, or muttering quietly to herself as she leafs through _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , but lovely all the same. Her light green dress sweeps along the floor as she reaches Ned and Gendry.

Upon closer inspection, there are golden leaves and acorns embroidered into the sleeves, and her dark hair - left surprisingly untouched - is woven through with grass. 

She says one last thing to Sansa and watches her sister make her way over to Podrick, who has luckily resolved his eyebrow situation.

Arya turns to Gendry with a sheepish smile on her face. She mouths a quick hello to him, looking pleased when he returns the gesture. Then her gaze flicks over to Edric, a small ‘v’ shape forming between her eyebrows. “Hey, Ned.”

He perks up as soon as she addresses him - probably the same way he does every time she turns his way in N.E.W.T. Herbology. _Could he be any more obnoxious?_

“Hi, Arya! We were waiting for you. You look nice tonight, by the way, and I was-” He opens his mouth to ramble on, but then Arya purposefully talks over him.

“Thanks.” She gives him a slightly uncomfortable smile. “It’s so good to see you. But I thought you were here with someone…?”

“Oh. Yes. Myrcella.” They all turn in her direction, and Myrcella, blushing, waves at them. Gendry thinks that it’s too bad she’s going to the Ball with a ponce like Edric Dayne - Cella is sweet and looks very charming in her rose-pink dress, but she’s clearly oblivious to the fact that Ned doesn’t like her half as much as she likes him.

“I suppose I should go over to her,” Ned says, his voice betraying the fact that the idea doesn’t quite appeal to him. “She said something earlier about wanting to dance.”

“That’s a good idea!” Arya replies with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Listen, the Ball will probably be starting soon…I’ll talk to you later, all right?”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she confesses to Gendry once Ned has slinked out of earshot. “And I’m sorry I took a while. The dress wouldn’t zip at first, and Meera had to magick it a size larger, and it’s so bloody itchy-”

“It’s okay, Arya.”

“Not really. I feel like an oak tree, with all these leaves and acorns.”

“Well, you look pretty,” he tells her with a hint of stiffness. “Better than either of the dunces from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, anyways. Or - I don’t know - like a proper Champion.”

Her face softens a little. “Thank you, Gendry. You clean up nice, too. Is that Sleekeazy’s?” she laughs, reaching up to touch his usually tousled hair.

“Yes, it is,” he swats her hand away. “And I spent twenty minutes trying to get it like this, so hands off.”

“Twenty minutes? Really?”

From there the conversation drifts towards schoolwork, eventually devolving into Arya’s description of an elaborate quidditch play she came up with while curling her hair. Once Gendry glances over at Sansa, who raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, _I told you it’d be fine._

A few minutes later Headmaster Seaworth breezes by, instructing them that it’s nearly time for the first dance.

“Yes, Headmaster,” they say in tandem. Arya takes Gendry by the arm and pulls him towards the aforementioned dunces from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang - a remark that Gendry feels a little bad about making now, since the Beauxbatons Champion, Daenerys, beams warmly at the both of them. He takes solace in the fact that Durmstrang’s Champion, a boy named Drogo, looks as surly and unfriendly as ever, though he brightens a little when Daenerys turns his way.

“Remember,” Arya whispers to Gendry, “I’ll kiss you when the dance is over.” The student orchestra starts to play, and she steers him forward.

But Gendry can’t help but balk a little, even though Drogo and his date are waiting for them to keep walking. “What, in front of everybody?” he hisses.

“Yes, Gendry,” she says as the set of double doors open into the Great Hall. “That’s sort of the whole point.”

There’s a round of polite applause when the Champions enter the Hall, and though Gendry already knew the Yule Ball would look fantastic, he can’t help but echo Arya’s sigh of awe.

The ceiling has been enchanted so that snowflakes drift down elegantly from a brilliant white sky, vanishing before they reach the floor; the long tables they usually sit at are gone and in their place are elegant round tables, decorated with holly wreathes and fairy cloths. 

Daenerys leads the way towards the dance floor, her silver head held proudly high. Naturally, she attracts the most attention, but Anguy spots Gendry and waves at him with a toothy grin. Gendry waves back and then drops his hand back to his black dress robes nervously.

And just as he suspected, Ned Dayne is lingering on the edge of the dais, staring mournfully at Arya. Poor Myrcella.

“Gendry, take my waist,” Arya says as a dance begins.

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Now!” she laughs, and just as the music speeds up he manages to get one palm on her side, the other holding her hand as she spins away from him.

He knows the steps, at least; Headmaster Seaworth had drilled all the boys for hours on the traditional Yule dance, and Gendry had spent many uncomfortable hours in his Transfiguration class practicing with Myranda Royce. Arya though - Arya seems to actually enjoy it. She’s light on her feet and swift and seems to always know where to step, executing the dance more methodically than if it were a pastime.

“You’re good,” he says, a bit surprised.

She arches an eyebrow at him as he picks her up by the waist and sets her down again. “I was always good at dancing.”

Other bedazzled figures join them on the floor, gleaming gowns and shiny coattails whirling every which way. Gendry spots the Headmaster dancing with Madame Melisandre - there’s a dysfunctional pairing he’d never thought to see - and Sansa twirls past them in Podrick’s arms, whispering something to Arya that makes both girls snort with laughter.

The music ends. Somehow they end up crossing paths with Ned and Myrcella. Gendry lowers his eyes to Arya’s, asking a silent question. _Now?_

She chews her lip, looks at Edric, and then lifts herself up on tiptoe.

Before he can even really process it, his best friend is kissing him. One of his hands moves to her hair. It stays there to cradle the side of her face, his thumb resting right on her jaw.

And this. This is different than watching Arya tell Ned, _no I would not like to go out on Hogsmeade weekend with you, I’ve got a boyfriend now_ ; this is different from holding hands between classes; this is different from enduring Sansa’s teasing smirks and giving false answers about their relationship. Even though Arya keeps her lips stubbornly closed, Gendry kisses her back, feeling the heat from her skin and sensing the blush that must be persuasive as his own.

Something longing stirs deep inside him.

He wonders if Arya feels it, too.

She pulls away from him and clears her throat, averting her eyes discreetly to the side. Then she licks her lips and turns towards Ned, anticipating his reaction.

“I - um -”

“They’re starting a new dance,” Arya says neutrally, “you and Myrcella should keep going!” She grabs Gendry’s hand, firmly, and addresses him. “Come on, darling. Let’s go get some punch.”

–

“Darling?” Gendry returns after a moment away, carrying two glasses full of something pale and pink that fizzes slowly at the edges. He offers one to Arya; she sniffs it cautiously. “That wasn’t in the plan.”

“It’s what my mum calls my dad sometimes,” she laughs, “sorry, first thing I could think of.” He smirks and rubs his jaw, feeling the ghost of her lips on his. “What is this, anyway?”

“Punch, as you asked for.” Professor Selmy had assured him of that, though Gendry has his misgivings. They both take a sip. The drink is cold and fruity. It reminds him of his mother and of hot summer days when he was young.

“Squash,” he says absently.

Arya raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Uh, just a Muggle drink,” Gendry explains. “My mum used to make it for me. It tastes a bit like this.” Arya nods in understanding, discreetly rolling up her sleeves so they don’t fall into her cup. She looks a little silly that way, but Gendry’s not stupid enough to tell her.

“Did you want to keep dancing?” she says when her glass is empty. There are plenty of other students on the floor, but a fair amount are just standing around like they are, smiling at the enchanted sky. 

“Not really.” Gendry winces. “No offense or anything.” 

Arya shrugs. “None taken.” Then her eyes light up, and she grabs his arm. “Let’s go to the courtyard, then.”

“Arry, it’s snowing outside.”

“I’m used to the cold.”

“It must be freezing.”

“If the owls can take it, so can you!”

“It’s your Yule Bale, Arya, you’re the Champion.”

“I don’t mind leaving it.”

And, well, Gendry isn’t the one who had to wait an hour to get his hair and dress done, so he follows her as she sneaks quietly out into the gentle snowfall.

It’s all whiteness out there, the castle blanketed in a layer of snow and ice; Arya’s nose pinks slightly as they seat themselves in the porte cochère of the courtyard. She doesn’t look terribly cold, really, but Gendry still feels obligated to put the outer layer of his dress robes around her bare shoulders, leaving him in a plain white dress shirt.

“Oh, I don’t need it,” she starts, but he waves her off, crossing his arms to ward away the cold.

“Please. All that _winter is coming_ shit doesn’t change the fact that it’s freezing out here.”

“As if I’ve ever said anything to the contrary.” Arya pulls out her wand and moves it in languid, clockwise circles. “ _Focillio_.” A warm glow emits from the tip of the wand, undampened by the snow. Arya murmurs under her breath and the heat intensifies, enough that it illuminates both her and Gendry’s face in ruddy light.

She turns to Gendry and waves the wand in his face. He leans back, a bit afraid she’ll burn his nose off. “Impressive.”

“First-year Charms at work.” She warms her fingers gingerly; they both chuckle, their voices seeming far too loud in the empty courtyard.

Gendry hesitates, watching her profile in the moonlight, so long and reserved and elegant. He hopes his next question won’t irritate her. “So - have you had any luck with the clue?”

“The clue…” Arya frowns, brushing a snowflake out her face. She knots her hands together, her wand balanced between her knees. “Oh. No, not really. But I do have time, Gendry.”

“Not much.” He’s been counting the days on his fingers, the hours she has until the Second Task. “There’s only a few weeks to go now.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “I know that, and I am trying - but what am I supposed to make of it? It’s an egg, and it doesn’t tell me anything, just some bloody useless screaming. And Daenerys and Drogo don’t seem to understand it either, although-” she glances around and lowers her voice. “Daenerys did mention something to me about putting the egg in a bath.”

“A bath?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “She told me just this morning, actually. Apparently, something happens when you put it underwater.”

“So she took the dragon’s egg,” Gendry says skeptically, “and bathed it?”

“Yes.”

“It worked. That’s the clue.”

“Apparently. I know it sounds ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, honestly, it does.” She’s usually so sharp. “Arya, have you ever heard of a thing called derailment?”

“Shut up.” Arya punches his shoulder, half-defeated. “It could be useful! More useful than whatever I’ve been doing, anyway.” She looks nervous, clouds of white seeping slowly from her lips. “Could we not talk about the Tournament, Gendry? Just for a day, and then I promise you can go back to badgering me about it.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “What else is on your mind?”

“Nothing.” That’s a lie. “All right. Something.” She turns towards him, fidgeting slightly, and it really is too cold out here. “I haven’t had time to thank you, Gendry.”

That, he hadn’t expected. “…for what?”

“For being my date tonight,” she explains, “and for being such a good boyfriend the past few weeks - fake boyfriend, it doesn’t even matter - when that was probably the most stupid, inconvenient thing I could’ve done to drive Ned away. I know you probably hated it. All the pretending we had to do. Plus the dancing,” she adds with a small laugh. “That was probably the worst part, right?”

“I didn’t hate the dancing,” Gendry says uncertainly. “Not really.”

“Well, that’s good.” Her voice is a bit thick. “But I also need to thank you for keeping me company during this stupid Tournament. My dad, when he…well, you know how hard it’s been without him. I only ever wanted to do this for him. I only ever wanted to win for him. And you’ve just been so wonderful.” She shakes her head. “My point is, real boyfriend or not, you’re the greatest person that I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone who’s better.”

“You don’t mean that,” Gendry says, more to himself than to Arya.

“Of course I do,” Arya says. “I’d do anything for you. And you’d do anything for me, right?”

That’s almost too simple. “Obviously.”

“Then,” she sucks in a quick breath of air. “Then would you kiss me, Gendry? If it’s all right with you?”

She had spoken so softly, he isn’t sure he heard her. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” On some bizarre impulse, he reaches up, brushes away a stray strand of hair. Lets the soft pad of his thumb gently press on Arya’s cheek. Her eyes flick nervously to his. “I’d just - I don’t know. You did it earlier, and I liked it. Not because of Ned. I liked it, that’s all. I wouldn’t mind doing it twice. If that isn’t what you want-”

She’s rambling again, and Arya does not ramble. Before his mind can catch up to his racing heart, Gendry presses his lips to Arya’s, warm and soft and perfect. It’s not a deep kiss, no tongue, no biting. Just lips. Just lips and the feeling of Arya, of his best friend, of Arya and everything she is and can be.

She pulls away softly, straightening up tall once more. Her cheeks are tinged pink. Her smile has never been brighter.

“Did you really not mind the dancing?” she says inquisitively.

Gendry has to laugh. “I would’ve had to do that either way, Arya.” He leans forward, resting his forehead slightly on hers, and holds her small, small hand. “I’m glad it was with you.”

She nods and covers his palm with her own. Around them, the snow keeps falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here are the lists of prompts i'm accepting!](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/post/631063118028603392/prompts-list) also, please comment/review if you enjoyed, it would mean the world to me :)
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


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